Montana Poet Laureate: Sheryl Noethe

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Permalink Reply by Sheryl Ann Noethe on September 13, 2011 at 11:53am

This poem is dedicated to Ed Lahey, dearly departed great poet. He told me so many stories, sometimes I was able to grab one and write it.  Ed enriched my life and was one of my closest friends. He informed me, he told me things about Buddha, and about his own life experiences.  I'm forever grateful for his friendship.

Old Poet by the Road

For Ed Lahey

The old poet stands beside the dusty road and I pull over.

We are going for a cool drink on this last summer day.

We are the type to tape poems to our walls.

A woman once said to him,

“It takes two to make a world.”

He is moving from the cockroach-infested apartments

Into the senior citizen high rise where

The front doors are all locked, and in the elevator

A shakily hand-lettered sign announces:

two chairs for sale see Evelyn.

He says, “It’s pretty sterile here”.

Not for long. His pockets of chaos, his black flame;

Nothing here will ever be the same:

The introduction of the heroic to the mundane.

Already the other tenants are scanning the sky.

In the cafeteria they pull empty chairs close up, these seats all saved.

Cigarettes tucked in his jacket, master works

Of civilization crumpled on handfuls of paper.

Having experienced the ineffable yearnings of our species

In the face of nature’s indifference, he says

“I am a Buddhist but I need passion.

Come on, little one, drive me home.”

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Permalink Reply by kathleen kimble on September 13, 2011 at 1:03pm

Sheryl -- Thank you for the poetic tribute. For the tears, memories, smile evoked by "Old Poet."
I miss Ed so.
-- Kathleen

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Permalink Reply by Sheryl Ann Noethe on September 13, 2011 at 2:05pm

Thank you Kathleen. I miss him as well, and sometimes I forget he's gone,

and I wait for a phone call with his distinctive voice. We'll always have him.

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Permalink Reply by Kim Anderson on September 13, 2011 at 7:59pm

Thank you Sheryl for bringing Ed back to many of us. And mark your calendars. The Humanities Montana Festival of the Book will feature a special Lahey Karaoke on Saturday, October 8 at 4:00 pm in the Holiday Inn Downtown bar. Hosted by our Poet Laureate, Sheryl (well she's not actually buying your drinks, but you know what I mean) and, I hope, Mark Gibbons although I haven't actually asked him yet. Yeah, that's how we roll. Everyone's invited to come and read their favorite Lahey poem. We'll have copies of his work.

 

What I love about Sheryl's poetry is something that strikes me in this particular poem--the conversation between the profound and the particular. "two chairs for sale, see Evelyn" and then just a few lines later "the introduction of the heroic to the mundane." When Sheryl does this it always makes me understand again that we can all be profound, we can all experience the immense in our little daily lives. Thanks sweety!

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Permalink Reply by Sheryl Ann Noethe on September 14, 2011 at 11:51am

Mark Gibbons has agreed to MC at the Ed Lahey Karaoke. I like your remarks about the poem. Thanks Doll.

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Permalink Reply by Sheryl Ann Noethe on September 20, 2011 at 11:08am

I was inspired to write this poem while reading some ancient script about forgiveness. I was so moved by the idea that forgiveness is the way to connect to God, whichever God you love, and also the notion of building an identity around pain, and that such an identity is forever reborn unless we can forgive. (I also enjoy opening windows, turning on the radio, sweeping and singing to start the day.)

Resolution09

To stop wanting;

End waiting,

Finish with grief.

No shame,

no foreboding,

nor remorse.

Sweep the house,

Sing with the radio,

Pour water into a bowl.

Take a twirl on the carpet.

Forget.

Forgiveness is how we remember God.

If we can’t forgive

We keep an identity around our pain.

This is what suffers.

And what is reborn again.

Maybe it looks like a hungry kid in a hood,

A daughter that ran away, or an abandoned son.

The bully slams home from the bar,

and before he’s even out of the car

the eldest girl and her seven siblings

scramble out the windows

and climb down the house

to hide in the fields of corn.

And what is reborn?

Older than civilization: fear, thirst, and falling.

God is in the machine,

Try to not look at His hands.

Your wild body helpless,

In one mind or another,

out of the proscribed lines.

Animal mind, it thinks I can breathe

underwater, and that I can fly.

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Permalink Reply by Shann Ray on September 23, 2011 at 12:45am

Sheryl, your poem on forgiveness here is one I need.  Thank you for your generosity.  A gorgeous, elegant, unforgettable poem.  Best to you in your beautiful work. 

Shann Ray

 

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Permalink Reply by Sheryl Ann Noethe on September 23, 2011 at 4:05pm

I'm so glad it touched you. Thanks for your kind response.

 

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Permalink Reply by Shann Ray on September 23, 2011 at 4:43pm

Looking forward to your reading upcoming at the Festival.  I'm reading on Fri. 

take care,

shann

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Permalink Reply by Sheryl Ann Noethe on September 23, 2011 at 5:05pm

I'll look for you

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Permalink Reply by Sheryl Ann Noethe on October 1, 2011 at 11:34am

I am very lucky as Artistic Director of the Missoula Writing Collaborative to have the pleasure of observing and evaluating writers at work in classrooms. This poem came from a classroom in Arlee, when the writer Robert Lee was working with elementary students. After decades of doing this work, I continue to be inspired by the results!

Reservation School

The poet asks the children to hold their breath and keep still.

Eyes wide, hands covering mouths, they look around at each other.

Not wanting to break the moment until they gasp and laugh.

Now, he says, write about the silence.

Silence is a rock not moving in a lake.

Says the brown haired 4th grader in a whisper.

I nod, and a few children like that, they begin

Nodding their heads at beautiful thoughts.

A little girl in braids with a waist as narrow as a wasp

Reads from her poem.

Silence is a sad sob in the night.

Wow! I say. Oh Man! Could you repeat that?

She shrugs, tosses off the line, which circles the room.

A boy with a cut on his finger shakes it and puts it in his mouth.

Silence is an empty jar in an old house.

He shows me the hurt finger again.

A little cowgirl stands and waits for quiet to say,

Silence is a window not opened.

We smile tenderly at each other.

Nod. In this sudden outbreak of splendor we are happy to be together.

Finally, the boy who was working on his drawing says,

Silence is in a bottle and a basket.

This is the end of class time, and everyone lines up

to exchange high fives and congratulations.

Silence is when my baby sister is asleep.

Silence is cats wondering.

I roll this afternoon around in my mouth.

Something sweeter than a ripe peach or custard,

How close the soul can come to the skin

When the body is still so new.

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Permalink Reply by kathleen kimble on October 2, 2011 at 3:29pm

Sheryl's poem from Robert Lee's work with the young talent of the Arlee area is another blazing example of why I support the Missoula Writing Collaborative and believe that teaching kids to love to write just might save our world. Hyperbole? Perhaps not.
Also, so many names on the 2011 Festival of the Book schedule are new to me that the excitement is building even more than usual. I love surprise gifts! Last year's discovery for me was Verlaine Stoner McDonald's "The Red Corner" on communism in northeast Montana. Fascinating and amusing session and book with more tie-ins to journalism than I expected....but I digress.
See you all Thursday at Fact and Fiction.

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